


Glass

by Kitty (Katatafish)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brothels, Churches & Cathedrals, Cigarettes, Dildos, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Strap-Ons, Street & Stage Magic, Theft, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 15:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18449375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katatafish/pseuds/Kitty
Summary: Francis takes Arthur to a church to escape the mob chasing them through the streets of Belfaux. It wasn't what the Englishman was expecting, but he's not opposed to joining in with the festivities





	Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ludwiggle73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Partners in Crime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547091) by [Ludwiggle73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73). 



Arthur Kirkland is not a man particularly well acquainted with churches. This, he will gladly be the first to admit.

 

There had been one, and only one, in his childhood. A well-meaning but ill conceived notion brought about by his father on the odd occasion on which he had decided to call their crumbling, wind beaten shack a ‘home’ for more than a month. This, however, was not a church in the traditional sense, with a spire, stained glass windows, and a gravesite- rather, it was the front lounge of a house only marginally more pleasant than his own. Yellowed wallpaper stained with years of cigarette smoke, under a thin dusting of soot blowing in through the windows from the nearby foundry. The carpet, brown and threadbare with the faintest hint of a floral pattern, had been worn through by the heels of fallen ladies’ shoes. A fireplace stood pride of place in the room, surrounded by green tiles in desperate need of a polish, and tucked under a wooden mantle which had been badly varnished some years earlier, with no one ever having bothered to fix it.

 

It was around this fireplace where they congregated, all eleven of them who had shown up for that sunday morning’s sermon. The pews were dining chairs, none of them matching, and all of them with a varying number of legs remaining. Arthur had perhaps paid more attention to the act of balancing on that rotten seat, than he had to the priest’s words. She- a female priest, only on Belfaux- was the only one to have dressed for the occasion. A formal dress three decades old but preserved unlike the rest of the room, a navy-blue brocade with a matching hat, which she wore despite being under a roof. She sat in her own chair, plush and high-backed, just to the right of the fireplace and angled towards the centre of the circle with her knees and ankles pressed tightly together. Her accent, her mannerisms, they were not those of an east-coast local. Her lips pursed when she talked, the scrawny lines of her neck bobbing like plucked fiddle strings every time she swallowed back saliva. She did not gesture with her hands, but her eyebrows were especially expressive. All the hallmarks of a woman attempting to come across as a much higher class than she was born, in Arthur’s humble opinion. He’d thought it then, and he would think it now, if he gave much thought to the experience at all. She may not have been Belfaux-bred, but she was just as rough as the men there with their singed boiler suits and scarred fingers, or the women with rouged cheeks and similarly coloured corset marks shining through their blouses.

 

Every once in a while, she would look up from her book, with its tissue-thin pages and gilded binding, and turn her attention to the portrait on the mantelpiece. It was not a well-painted portrait, but even with his lack of such an education, Arthur could still discern who it was meant to be of. Clothed in rags, his facial hair grown long but tidy, he held up two gentle fingers but kept his gaze steely as though he was judging the circle of sinners sat before him. There was no crucifix, no incense, no flowers, and no statues- those were, of course, reserved for the services on the west side of the island only. Nevertheless, they managed just fine with one bible between them all, the aged portrait, and the crochet doily on which it sat atop the fireplace, at which Arthur stared for a reasonably significant amount of time in the hopes that his own gaze, bright and challenging, would somehow set it aflame. Then, and only then, might he have paid more attention to the sermon.

 

Arthur left that terraced house feeling no different to what he had felt walking in some hours ago. Except, perhaps, more hungry, and not for communion bread. His father, he had noticed, walked with an uncharacteristic spring in his step for the hour after, and that was almost the extent to which either of them had been changed by the experience. Although, he was not loath to take advantage of the sudden yet short-lived looseness of his father’s pockets in those sixty minutes, stopping by the butcher’s stall at the indoor market to buy a block of beef dripping to have on bread for lunch. A veritable luxury, at that time. After this, the ‘church’ was never mentioned again. Primarily, as his father had disappeared again only days later.

 

He’d asked himself why once, on a late night, when the glass panes of the windows rattled in their splintered frames and the wind howled through the chimney. Why his father had suggested going to church, why that ‘church’ in particular, and most importantly, why he’d agreed to go along with in the first place. The second was easy enough to answer. The first, he’d managed to conjure up some elaborate idea- his father waking with a gasp, sitting up from the couch he slept on with fevered breaths as the last dregs of a dream leave his mind. That dream, a vision of himself engulfed in flame as a demon-like creature stood prodding him with a sharp-tongued pike with a maddeningly regular frequency for all of eternity. Following it, the realisation that he should do more for his poor soul. Unlikely, but it was a better answer than nothing, and allowed his brain to be free of any thought along that line for plenty of years. The third, he’d never bothered to think about at all.

 

So when his life’s second experience with churches crashed down in front of him, and found him red-faced, panting with blistered feet and a stitch in his side, he was somewhat taken aback. 

 

One moment, he had been stood in a market square, luring in exploitable patrons and keeping watch of a steadily-growing collection of jewels and coins, while Francis kept their interest performing curious tricks under their noses. They were enraptured, they always were, as had he been until the French showman let slip some of his secrets. That amazement was replaced with another, wonder at how easy it is to be fooled by something so simple when it is held right in front of your eyes. It was a nicer day than the ones which had preceded it, so people were more willing to stand and watch, giving in to the tugs of their children on the hems of their jackets to go and investigate the act. 

 

However, the higher than average heat and dry wind had one adverse side-effect. The people of the island were not used to temperatures above double digits, especially not so early in the year. Standing in the sun had made some of them irritable and quick-tempered, wishing to return to the familiarity of the cold and the rain, and letting everyone else know how unsettled they were feeling. A shout ran out across the square, strained and rough like sandpaper, but passionate nonetheless. It was not a word in any language either Arthur or Francis were familiar with, but the tone was certainly known to them. Two pairs of eyes flicked up to find the source of the shout; the others all turned to face them. Eyebrows furrowed, hands clenched, hearts raced. They’d been preparing for this.

 

Francis dropped the stack of cards he held in graceful fingers, but did not pause to watch them scatter face-up across the cobblestones. Arthur, being the shortest of the pair and therefore far closer to the ground than his partner, dove behind their table to swipe up the bag full of their takings for the afternoon, narrowly avoiding spilling half of it over the cards on his way back up as he struggled to turn and chase after Francis, who had sprung into action before the voice had finished yelling. It was good that he did- as soon as Arthur had once again found his footing, half of their audience had been set upon them like beagles to foxes, men and women alike following them through winding streets. This was a new development. Before, once they had left the town centre, the walk back to their humble flat had been nothing more than a leisurely stroll. The risk of their address being discovered is at the forefront of both men’s minds, and they know that they can’t lead the mob straight there.

 

Occupied by this train of thought, Arthur almost doesn’t notice when Francis changes course, rounding a tight corner in a split second, nearly crashing into the walls either side of him as he runs. He doesn’t look back to see if the Englishman is following, but he hears the heaving breaths and heavy feet, and more importantly, the rattle of coins bouncing at his hip as the bag swings. There’s a slight pang of sympathy for his poor friend’s lungs, but that will have to wait.

 

The street Arthur finds himself running down is not a street at all. To call it a ginnel would still be generous. But both he and Francis can fit down it one behind the other, and the entrance is so narrow that it has the effect of causing a sort of bottleneck effect when the angry horde tries to follow. Eventually, it seems, they realise that it is not worth the effort to chase down the pair of bandits, and resign themselves to the idea that their money will not be returned to them. Francis slows, as Arthur does in response, but he still keeps a steady running pace. Arthur can’t figure out where he’s being led- this passageway is unfamiliar to him- but he can’t seem to find the space within his mind to worry about this with the rub of fabric around his tight chest and the maintenance of a relatively stable breathing pattern of more importance to him in that moment.

 

* * *

 

 

St Raphaela’s stands like a guard dog, watching proudly over her coastline. It’s a slightly nicer beach than the rest of the island, pebbled rather than sandy, but the stones are smooth and appear to be easy and comfortable to walk on, and there is no risk of finding a broken glass bottle half-buried beneath a sand dune, waiting for an enthusiastic and barefooted child to jump on it. The bell tower climbs high, but Arthur has never heard them ring. The windows appear grey from the outside, marred with speckles of white from where the wind has blown ocean salt over, but when the light hits the glass at the right angle he sees inklings of colours shining through. Francis’ gait finally calms as they traverse the winding path up to the front door, tall and arched with intricate carvings, and it takes all of Arthur’s strength not to collapse with an exhausted sigh right there on the grass. Thankfully, the door is already open, and he has to wait no longer before Francis pushes it open and ushers Arthur inside.

 

Immediately, his feet sink into a plush red carpet. The lobby is small, surrounded by walls of wooden panels, with a dim light hanging overhead. Several portraits hang on those walls with even spacing between them, simple and light in both colour and theming. People, faces. Arthur’s sight is too blurred from breathlessness to attempt to recognise any of them. Another door, no less grand then the first, stands before them, shut but not locked. Either side of that door are two small stained glass windows depicting no discernible scene, but shining almost painfully brightly even under the flickering gas lamp. In the centre of the room, a table stands, hexagonal in shape and not quite chest height. On it rests a book, flicked open, with small scribbles on the pages in neat rows. They do not stay there long enough for Arthur to read them.

 

A woman with dark skin and wild hair tied with lilac ribbons on either side of her chin meets them on the other side of the door. Her legs, her arms, and most of her chest are bared, the tight lacing of her corset squeezing her breasts up closer to her neck, which she displays freely, her body not hidden by a blouse or skirt. A bold plum shade stains her lips, and black has been painted around her deep brown eyes with a great degree of care and a light hand. Arthur has no trouble keeping his gaze trained solely on hers- Francis does. She smiles up at them.

 

“Francis!” she exclaims, placing a friendly kiss on either one of his cheeks.

 

“What are you here for? It’s a little early in the day for you, no?” her smirk shines. Francis ruffles, faking offense with a laugh just as bright.

 

“Are you not glad to see me,  ma chérie?”

 

“I think that depends on what you’ve come looking for- the usual?”

 

“No, nothing like that, unfortunately,” he sighs, “I need a room.”

 

“How long?”

 

“Overnight- maybe more.”

 

The woman quirks an eyebrow, and regards Francis with a suspicious yet amused glance, before turning her attention over to Arthur, still panting and shaking tucked behind the taller man. Her eyes are warm and welcoming, doe like but not necessarily innocent, and he does not tremble under her stare.

 

“Is this something to do with your friend?”

 

“If you must know,” Francis tuts, “We’ve come seeking refuge from a rather angry mob of people who may or may not have intended to follow us home and kill us.”

 

The woman doesn’t even flinch at the situation, instead nodding as if the scenario is one she hears of regularly. With a nod, she skips over to a wooden cabinet mounted on emerald green damask patterned wallpaper, swings open to door, and pull out a small brass key attached to a large tassel of navy blue, and a small coin. Francis nearly snatches it from her hand, but maintains a general air of gratefulness throughout. 

 

“Room 8- you know where to find it,” she winks, “Would you like me to let Toni know you’re here?”

 

“Is he in now?”

 

“Not at the minute.”

 

“Let him know when he gets back then- and make sure to tell him we’ll be fully reimbursing him for the help.”

 

“Have a good night, Francis.” 

 

“You have a better one, Michelle,”

 

With one hand rattling the key against the coin, Francis wraps the other around Arthur’s own, and tugs him towards a large staircase. It curves around a corner, and most of it is hidden by another wall, but it is still impossibly wide. Almost cavernous in the way it climbs, each step is painted in shadow, and from where he stands on the bottom step, Arthur cannot see where the top extends out into a corridor. Despite the presumably regular foot traffic, the carpet here is no less plush than it had been in the entryway, a fact for which Arthur’s feet and knees are especially glad for.

 

At the top of the stairs, when it finally comes into their view, the landing area is long and thin, and appears much the same as the level below it. Same wallpaper, same dim lighting, but the difference lies along both walls. Rather than paintings or carvings, there are rows of doors- three on each side, all of them the same dark wood, with a brass number the same colour as the key and the coin in the centre. Arthur’s heart sinks when the number ‘8’ is not among them, as Francis continues to lead him forward to another staircase.

 

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Francis asks, half jeeringly, half sympathetic. It stirs a sudden burst of energy within Arthur, who raises the hand not encompassed by the Frenchman’s, and revels in the satisfying slapping sound it makes when colliding with Francis’ cheek.

 

* * *

 

 

Room 8 is, thankfully, the first door on the right at the top of the second staircase. Francis lets go of Arthur’s hand to barge it open with his shoulder, the key seemingly useless. He tosses it over to the bed where it lands with a thud on the duvet. As soon as Arthur has crossed the threshold, he migrates to follow it. This room is not entirely unlike anything he has seen in the building so far, but somehow, Arthur feels as though he’s somewhere else- somewhere far away from jewel tones and the smell of burning incense. The walls are a nearly pure shade of white, interspersed with pale stripes the colour of pink champagne. Clean bed sheets of a golden silk cover the mattress, these being of a much higher quality than anything found in any of the islands hotels or hostels. Behind the bed stands a window stretching from the floor to the ceiling, casting shades of every colour across the white of the room. From the inside, the stained glass is far more stunning, each delicate curve of a woman’s body depicted perfectly, wrapped in golden wings and draped in a rose-coloured cloth. Lying on that bed, catching his breath, bathing in the coloured light, and letting his head sink into the pillow, Arthur comes to a sudden realisation.

 

“Francis,” he begins carefully, “did you bring me to a brothel?”

 

He hangs his jacket up behind the door, before looking over to Arthur with a nonchalant shrug.

 

“I might have- I was hardly going to lead them all the way home, was I?”

 

It takes a second to process the idea, before Arthur bursts into badly stifled laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation the pair seem to have found themselves in. Francis, it would appear, can’t help but join him.

 

“I can’t believe you.” the Englishman giggles.

 

“I’m going to the bathroom, you should rest a little. Would you like me to bring you a glass of water?”

 

“Please.”

 

With Francis gone and his heart rate back to being within the realm of normal, Arthur takes it upon himself to investigate the room further. It’s not a large room, with minimal furniture, but there is a bedside table within reach. He rolls over and slides open the top drawer, finding there a collection of variously sized, phallic shapes. His breath hitches. This was, perhaps, the last thing he’d expected to experience when he’d woken up that morning, but it is not the strangest part. That would be his lack of adverse reaction, instead being somewhat curious about the whole affair. It’s suspicious, but not unwanted, so he reaches in and pulls one out tentatively, only for Francis to walk back into the room at that very moment. Arthur doesn’t move as Francis sets a glass down on the table, the drawer still proudly open. They catch each other’s line of sight.

 

“It’s a brothel, Arthur, you figured that out for yourself. I don’t know why you’re so surprised.” he hums.

 

“I’m not surprised-” Arthur hesitates, “I just thought-”

 

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do?” Francis chides. The silence that follows is deafening.

“I mean, we could do-”

 

This time it is Francis who must wait to collect the thoughts swimming in his mind. Any such suggestion from Arthur is entirely unheard of, and he checks three times that he definitely understood the proposition properly. His hands, blissfully free now of any glassware, shake ever so slightly from anticipation, rather than nerves. The stirring of heat is still distant from his abdomen. He clears his throat.

 

“What were you thinking?” he asks.

 

Arthur gestures timidly towards the dildo in his hand. Glass, intricately made. A fine, expensive thing.

 

“That we could use this?”

 

Francis needs more confirmation.

 

“Use it on you?” he attempts to clarify, his voice nervous even if his hands are not.

 

Arthur swallows, breathing almost as hard as he had been as the pair were running.

 

“I thought, maybe we might use it on you.”

 

Heat takes this as the starting gun to begin building, and he’s sure he can feel a flush rising up from the base of his neck. He’s not sure how long it takes him, but he nods in agreement.

 

“Can you wait here for a minute?” he asks, “I’ve just had an idea,”

 

When he returns wide-eyed and red-cheeked, Francis is carrying what appears to be a small knot of ribbons and dainty silver buckles, creating the shape of a cage, with one panel of satin among them all.

 

“Take your trousers off,”

 

Arthur, more eager now than he had been before Francis left the room, stands up from the bed to follow the order, but naturally, not before a quick jibe.

 

“Gosh, you’re forward,” he smirks, as Francis goes through the same motions of getting undressed, his trousers, then his shirt, keeping his underwear on for now as his clothes join the pile of Arthur’s. He sits on the ground, arranging the cage of ribbon on the ground at Arthur’s feet.

 

“Step in,”

 

Francis pulls it up around Arthur’s legs, lithe and pale, until it settles around his hips and waist where Francis can tighten the buckles. The satin panel sits at the front, looser than the ribbons, with a tidy hole in the centre of it. He barely manages to hold himself back from laying soft palms and fingerprints on that white and freckled expanse of skin, holding his breath as he does so, as he reaches up to take the dildo from Arthur’s hands. With slow, gentle, but purposeful movements, he slides the glass through the hole, and sets the flared base to lie flush against Arthur’s body. He tightens the buckles once more, before rising to stand directly opposite him. Arthur stands taller and broader for the addition, a satisfied smirk on his face.

 

“The girls here are a bit more fuller-figured, but this should work. There’s some oil in the bottom drawer.”

 

“Are you expecting me to prepare you?” Arthur snaps back.

 

Francis knows those green eyes- they’re not changing their mind.

 

He kneels on the edge of the bed, and kneels forward to retrieve a small vial of olive oil, half-empty, from the drawer. Shutting them both, he pulls back to balance himself in the centre of the mattress, the bottle in one hand and the lid in the other. This he sets down, before Arthur begins to speak again.

 

“Look at me while you do it.”

 

Francis doesn’t hesitate, crawling around to meet Arthur’s eyes. His face, not quite blank but hardly the bastion of emotion, doesn’t change.

 

Careful not to spill a drop on the sheets despite the knowledge that they have, and will, see far worse than that, Francis pours the oil into his right hand, massaging to coat each of his fingers equally, but not necessarily liberally. This is not an unfamiliar exercise to the Frenchman, who reaches back with a practised technique. Glistening skin begins to twitch as one oiled finger makes contact with a pucker of pink skin, drawing tantalisingly slow circles around it. Blood floods to the flesh between his legs. His other hand trembles, gripping the bed sheets and struggling to keep himself held up as the tip of his index finger breeches the tight opening. 

 

A second joins it, both of them held tightly together as the warmth begins to melt and stretch around them, each nerve set alight by the touch, delicate and teasing as opposed to the usual quick and rough. He moves his wrist back and forth, stroking red as the muscle clenches around them. He dares to include a third, teasing the rim, but never fully snaking forward. The tip of his tongue is held tight between white teeth as he tries to swallow back a moan. Not once does Arthur look away, keeping his stare trained firmly on Francis’ debauched face, red with exertion after only minutes. And yet, the Frenchman does not shrink under his watch, instead choosing to bat his eyelashes a little more obnoxiously, and to shift his hips from side to side in pleasure, relishing under an audience. 

 

The third finger moves to join the first two as the muscles around his stomach coil around themselves.

 

“You might want to put that thing into practise,” he huffs, eyeing up Arthur’s glass cock, “or you won’t have time to.”

 

Arthur’s smirk widens, he quirks a heavy eyebrow. With great elegance, he raises his hand to tilt Francis’ chin up towards him, thumb stroking the slight sprinkle of gold stubble he finds there.

 

“Are you trying to suggest that you’re going to cum without my permission, Francis?”

 

Every inch of Francis’ skin shivers as Arthur purrs out his name, his accent slipping back into the local drawl the Frenchman has never been able to admit to liking as much as he does.

 

“Please, Arthur.” he breathes.

 

“Sir.”

 

“Please, _sir._ ” Francis would smile at the audacity if he were not so otherwise occupied.

 

“Well, since you asked so nicely.”

 

The mattress shakes as Arthur clamours atop it, placing a warm hand on each of the Frenchman’s hips to steady himself where he knelt. It seems to take an age for him to catch his balance, and throughout it all, Francis’ breath hangs baited and still, catching suddenly when he feels Arthur move closer in behind him, those hands tracing up to the delicate curve of his waist.

 

The glass is cold as it sinks in to his flesh, Arthur meeting the target with the first gentle thrust, a practised ease not anticipated but welcomed nonetheless. Francis arches his back like a self-satisfied cat, fingers stretched wide, and his palms sliding forward down the duvet to lower his chest down to the mattress. Within only seconds, Arthur seems to abandon his slow and tender technique in exchange for rough, quick, and imprecise strokes, sending Francis scrambling to stay upright. His legs quiver as sweat begins to drip down his shimmering thighs, and almost collapse beneath him under the weight of Arthur’s body pressing against his own, even with the anchor of his chest pressed down.

 

A new throbbing sensation begins to build between his legs, the rising pressure having him panting and writhing. His cock glows a particular shade of red so dark it is practically purple, bobbing as Francis rocks forward and backwards. Muscle tightens. He throws his arm back, angling it painfully to wrap his hand around Arthur’s slim wrist, before pulling it forward. Lifting his chest back up from the mattress to allow for more room, he pulls Arthur’s hand towards his dick. He tenses each line of his thighs and pelvis, tightening to stop spilling all over the bed sheets and the Englishman’s wrist.

 

He moves the fingers to wrap around his own members, pulling the thumb and index finger up to pinch the reddened and weeping head of his cock, quickly abandoning them there in favour of steadying himself as he falls forward. No sooner does he feels the slide of silk against the palm of his hand, does he also feel the friction of a roughened palm against thing, taut skin, as Arthur- bless his soul- moves to do the opposite of what Francis wishes, bringing him closer to an edge he has no intention of tipping over any time soon. His shoulders are to weak now with the added touch to take control once more, so instead, with a strained voice, he huffs,

 

_ “Pinch it there.” _

 

Arthur listens, thank God, but sees fit to reward Francis with the sharp sting of a passionate slap in response to his demand, leaving a crimson hand print on peach flesh. His fingers, slithers of nail also, once again pinching Francis’ member. This time, with a more intense weight behind it, the feeling almost malicious, but with no malicious intent. The thrusts continue in much the same way, deeper, harder. The fingernails on Arthur’s other hand carves purple rings into the same scarlet painted skin on Francis’ back. Pressure continues to build, with no inclination of sweet relief appearing on the horizon.

 

That is, until it does, and far more soon than Francis would have hoped for. His joints go first, sending him collapsing to the mattress in a heap, the sound of feathers moving to surround his form lost within heavy breaths and moans. This, naturally, pulls Francis from Arthur’s grip, releasing a significant build up, and having the Frenchman paint the golden sheets white where he lays. They’ll have seen far worse in this place, so the mess doesn’t bother him. Much to Arthur’s delight, his hand remains clean. His skin, purple and red and blotchy, glows under the setting sun pouring through stained glass. His head swims in a salty-scented fog as he catches his breath, Arthur hovering over him like a vision of a spirit, pale and dishevelled, the only colour being rosy, flushed cheeks. 

 

“I think you’re forgetting something.” he huffs, crossing one arm over the other like a petulant child. Francis smirks.

 

* * *

 

 

A silk cocoon surrounds Arthur’s body as the light dims. His arms are cold above the blanket, but inside his barely-clothed body is warmed by the heat of Francis’ own nude form, the scent of the Frenchman engulfing him as Arthur rests in his lilac shirt, still perfectly ironed despite its hour spent in a heap on the floor. Both men hold between their fingertips a long, slim cigarette, each of them burned down to the same point. Not their usual spoil, but welcomed nonetheless. The carton, they had found tucked away at the back of one of the bedside drawers, presumably by an angel in a rush to meet her next appointment. Basking in their mutual lingering pleasure, Arthur stretches both of his legs out like a cat, before pulling them back in to curl into Francis’ side. An arm snakes behind his head to encircle him, a nonchalant but dedicated hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder. The door swings open.

 

“Antonio wants to know if you’re planning on having dinner with us.” Michelle smiles, resting her hip on the door frame, curls spilling more wildly around her face now than the last time they had seen her.

 

Shocked, Arthur tugs the silk sheet up under his chin, barely avoiding catching it alight with the cigarette as he scrambles to hide each line of his skin from the well-meaning intruder. Francis, on the contrary, seems perfectly content to hold a conversation only covered up to his hip bones, even with their golden shroud falling in a suggestive pattern over the lower half of his body.

 

“I think we’re just fine here, Michelle. Thanks for the offer.” he smiles.

 

“Alright,” she shrugs with a knowing grin.

 

“Have a good night,”

 

The room falls back into a tinted darkness, and suddenly Arthur doesn’t seem as bothered about staying under the covers.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 'Partners in Crime' by Ludwiggle73.
> 
> God I love Ludwiggle73.


End file.
